


Gotta Get On It

by alizarin_scribbles



Series: android monogatari [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Firsts, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, M/M, Masturbation, Mild alcohol, Ore monogatari-flavored writing style, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Wire Play, oops gonesexual :')
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-07-29 04:32:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16256726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_scribbles/pseuds/alizarin_scribbles
Summary: After the android revolution, Connor and Hank lead boring, colorful lives together. Chaptered. Rating possibly subject to change. IN-PROGRESS.





	1. Go Slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my depressed ass](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+depressed+ass).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor gets a jury duty summons, Hank gets into trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, a little late for me to be adding this but here:
> 
> [Disclaimer: Several named characters in this story belong to Quantic Dream and all other additional entities responsible for the creation/ownership of Detroit Become Human. All the other characters belong to me.]
> 
> Peace uou)b  
> -Reddie

After a New Year’s party with their colleagues, Connor drives Hank, tipsy and quiet, back home.

On a stoplight, he chances a brief, careful glance over him, the glow of the red light warm on his already-flushed cheeks, his eyes glinting in a cinematic shade of violet. Hank notices, and the air seems to shift between them when he smiles drowsily back at Connor.

Back at the party, Hank had intended his last celebratory glass of champagne to be one for the road, but then one turned to three, and then would’ve been four if Connor hadn’t stepped in. It’s a relief to know Hank isn’t upset with him for it.

“Thanks,” Hank tells him, voice running low and resonant through Connor’s audio processors. It’s a beautiful sound, and he wishes he had half the mind to save it to his memory.

He gets distracted, returning his attention to the road. He’s very well capable of multi-tasking, but somehow, Hank makes it difficult to remember that at times. It's been like that lately, for some reason.

“It’s my pleasure,” Connor understates.

Hank snorts, “Really? A pleasure to have to drag my sorry drunk ass back and forth?”

“I didn’t _have_ to,” Connor tells him, “I just happen to like being there for you. Also, you have the keys to the house, so—”

“Aw, fuck you,” Hank laughs, the sound harsh, but friendly. “Though remind me to get on that. Can’t be keyless forever if you’re gonna keep living with me.”

“In an emergency, I could always break the window again,” Connor suggests, quirking an eyebrow at Hank. “You’ll know it’s me right away.”

Hank puffs a breath again, shaking his head, lips curled into a grin. It occurs to Connor that this is the first occasion he’s seen Hank _happy_ while intoxicated, and he files the fact away for later reflection.

“You know, I appreciate your sass. It’s nice.”

“I appreciate your sense of humor, Lieutenant.”

“Mn. We’re off the clock,” He says amiably. “You can say ‘Hank’, if you want.”

“Hank, then…” Connor murmurs, the name sliding off his tongue wonderfully. He tries it again, slower, “Hank.”

Hank hums another lovely sound, and by then, they’ve pulled into the driveway. Connor’s processors run overwhelmed with strange sensations, like he’s both shutting down and working overtime simultaneously. And he can’t quite decide if he wants to rip himself right out of the car or just stay planted there forever, staring back at his partner.

He does the former, deciding the latter would be pronouncedly more awkward. Hank lags behind… however, not from being tipsy, as Connor notices he’s brought back a box of the leftover Danishes from the party. While Connor calculates the dietary impact of the pastries, Hank gets at the door, more than happily throwing it open. Sumo jingles into sight, barking once. 

“Hey,” Hank greets softly, sounding fond as he leans down for Sumo. “Happy New Year, boy. I’m back.” The dog sniffs at him eagerly, nosing at his shoulder and then at the box before stepping up to Connor curiously, a low whine in his throat. He’s been on and off with recognizing the android as a housemate.

“Hi, Sumo,” Connor whispers as he crouches too, chipper and gentle. He lifts his hand to brush at the fur at the top of Sumo’s head.

Sumo sneezes in his face and turns, smacking Connor’s cheek with his tail once before making his merry way back to the kitchen. As Connor rubs his sleeve over his face, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes of snot-mist, Hank bursts out in full laughter, holding the side of his face in one hand.

“He’ll get used to you eventually,” Hank pats him on the back, helping him up. Then, holding the door open, he gestures, “Now, after you, sweetheart.”

It’s all normal teasing, just a typical quirk of Hank’s speaking patterns, and yet Connor can feel his thirium pump jitter briefly at the endearment. A realization begins to stir at the back of his mind, as if loading steadily towards an obvious end point.

“Thank you,” Connor nods politely, but not without also swiping the box from him on the way in, analyzing the contents. At least some of them contain high-fiber fruit, though not by much.

Hank trails after him in a huff, watching Connor swiftly put the pastries away on top of the fridge, behind where Hank keeps Sumo’s treats.

“How the fuck is that supposed to stop me?” Hank grumbles, hands on his hips. “I can still reach that.”

“I’m not stopping you.” Connor stretches up on his tiptoes, pushing the box just slightly further back, “Just deterring you, I hope.”

However, when he’s done adjusting, he places a raisin snail in Hank’s hand. The plastic crinkles in his palm and Hank rolls his eyes good-naturedly, ruffling Connor’s hair.

“You little shit.”

“You love me for it,” Connor retorts cheekily.

Though, with Hank’s fingers threading through his hair, his tone nearly shifts on the last syllable. It’s a pleasant sensation, and the low hum at the back of Hank’s throat sends a swell of heat through his systems. He gets the familiar tingle that comes with increased software instability, and whatever realization he had loading before is now complete.

“Yeah?” Hank’s hand slides back, curling at the base of Connor’s neck, “Maybe I do, huh? Love you…”

And before Connor can evaluate these feelings, decide to speak or keep his newly-discovered secret, Hank is leaning closer in, breath falling warm over Connor’s parted lips. Just from that, he’s able to detect Hank’s blood alcohol content has gone down to 0.049 g/100 ml since getting in the car. Plus, his heart rate has gone up too.

Connor hadn’t anticipated this.

He blinks, “Hank?”

They stay like that for a long moment, until Hank’s tipsy brain catches up. He looks into Connor’s eyes and sees a deer in headlights, so he backs off, apologetic.

“I’m—oh, fuck, uh. Geez. My bad. Sorry.” Hank awkwardly puts the raisin snail to the side on the countertop, clearing his throat. “I’m. God, that was pretty fucked, uh. Just forget I said it, I’m sorry. It’s late, so. I probably shouldn’t be—”

As he turns his back, Connor repeats, firmly, “Hank.”

Hank freezes up, doesn’t look back. Connor reaches out, but doesn’t touch, hesitant.

“Yeah, Con?”

His voice dips low, soothing, “Do you mean that?”

“Uh,” Hank bites his lip, shaking his head. “I’m. Kinda tipsy right now, I shouldn’t—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Connor pitches his voice even softer, steps slightly closer, so he’s standing beside Hank instead of behind him, hand now hovering near his shoulder, but still not touching. It’s almost like he’s nervous he’ll scare Hank away if he makes the wrong move, which is a bit wild, considering Hank was under the impression _he’d_ just crossed a boundary with Connor.

And Hank’s heart twists up, because Connor’s always… watching after him, trying to care after him, being careful with this old worn heart that’s been broken way too hard once or twice already.

Hank’s been pissy, belligerent, difficult in so many unnecessary ways, and he doesn’t fault people for being done enough with his bullshit for them to push him away right back. So it always surprises him, each and every time, how gentle and mindful Connor continues to be with him, like he’s still someone worth loving.

Who in the hell _wouldn’t_ fall for that?

“I…” Hank rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. I meant it. So what?”

“I think I love you too.”

The words settle over him like they were attached to tiny parachutes. Hank’s jaw falls slack, lips parting slowly, mouth empty of words. Most of his vocabulary’s been knocked out by fuzzy disbelief.

“You what,” is all he can manage, and it just barely crawls out of his throat.

At that, the hand finally settles like fresh snow falling on Hank’s shoulder. Connor paces around him so they’re face to face, and Hank forces himself to look up.

Silent and stunned, Hank takes in the determination in Connor’s eyes, that same look Connor gets once he’s gotten ahold of a lead, ready to share his deductions with Hank. To see that look now, used so intimately to convey his own confession, makes every skin cell on Hank’s body burn flustered.

“I love you,” Connor repeats bluntly, as if presenting Hank with solid evidence. “And if you weren’t intoxicated right now, I’d…” He trails off a moment, suddenly looking a little astonished with himself, “I’d ask to kiss you.”

Hank blinks hard, twice, trying to double-check in Connor’s gaze for some sort of doubt. But all he can see in those big, stupidly-pretty brown eyes is… bright, warm _wonder_ , like this is the first time Connor’s watched the sun come up or something similarly cheesy.

“Aw, hell…” Hank shakes his spinning head. “You can kiss me right now, if you wanna. I won’t fucking mind that.”

Connor lifts his hand from Hank’s shoulder to his face, brushing softly through his beard on the way up.

He leans in for a second, enough to make Hank’s brain spin with _Okay, okay, well shit, he’s actually doing it, fuck_ —

“I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you,” Connor whispers, just inches from Hank’s lips.

And Hank stifles the sigh that tries to squeeze out of his lungs, trying to school himself. He’s _tipsy_ , not drunk, dammit, but it’s sweet and he gets that Connor’s trying to be a gentleman here. Hank would’ve probably done the same thing had their positions been reversed—though, it’s not like an android _could_ even get buzzed, as far as he knows, but still!

“Oh no, you wouldn’t be, I…” He tries to reassure, floundering a bit, “Con, like I said, I… I meant it.”

Connor shifts, nothing but adoration in his eyes as he closes the space between them. But they don’t kiss.

No, Connor is leaning into Hank, chest to chest, sighing against his neck contentedly as he closes his arms around Hank’s frame. And Hank hugs back, skin tingling alight with fuzzy, pleasant feelings and all the more disoriented for it on top of his tipsiness.

But Connor stands solid, stable, supporting his dizzy weight. Hank closes his eyes at the sensation of Connor breathing in his scent, at him making a very satisfied sound (maybe extraneously satisfied, with the way it’s making Hank burn up to his ears). It’s a little awkward, but there’s something heartwarming about it, real simple and sweet.

“Everything is so new, Hank,” Connor nuzzles into him, “It’s… admittedly overwhelming. I’d like to be slow with you, if that’s alright.”

“Aw, Con.” Hank chuckles softly and hums, “You don’t even gotta ask for that.”

* * *

It’s back to the usual the next morning. Something’s a little different, but really, not much changes.

Hank’s having breakfast when Connor throws the front door back open again after taking just one step outside.

“Oh boy,” He glances over his shoulder as Connor patters back in with the mail, thrumming with energy. He’s scanning over something with a QR code on it, dumping out everything else on the table, magazines, bills, and all. Hank snorts, taking a drink from his cup of coffee. “Well, what’d you get?”

Connor swiftly rounds the kitchen table to show Hank his open palm, a projection of a file resting on it.

“This is a jury duty summons,” Connor explains, eyes so bright and LED pulsing so blue that he looks like he got a fucking extra Christmas present in the mail instead of a pain in the ass.

Sumo barks, clambering up to Connor like he wants to know what was going on. And Connor just crouches down to rub the dog’s back, showing him the summons too. Hank can’t help but crack up a little bit.

“You sure seem excited about that, huh?”

“Of course I am!” Connor expounds, springing back up to his feet, “I’ve been curious to learn more firsthand about the different facets of the American legal system outside of my intended purposes. And I was programmed to be able to reconstruct scenarios based on evidence, so I can’t think of another civic duty I’d be better equipped to assist in.”

“Eager to help out…” Hank observes.

“And eager to participate,” Connor clarifies, leaning down, resting his elbows on the table, “to have a voice, and to have my input recognized as that of a member of society.” He pauses to take an intentional breath. “You can’t imagine how exciting it is for me to experience all of this for the first time, Hank.”

Heart-warmed, Hank can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

He thinks of how much both of their lives have changed since the revolution, since meeting each other. This time last year, if Hank had gotten a jury duty summons, he would’ve added it to the weight already on his shoulders, marked it off as another little burden of being alive.

So there’s something endearing, and really _moving_ , about Connor’s fresh outlook on daily living. Ever since Connor needed a place to crash, every single day has been like… living with a Studio Ghibli character. Connor’s been quietly thrilled over things like deep cleaning the garage to make his own personal library corner, starting a coin collection of those special 50-states quarters, taking Sumo to the vet for his annual check-up, getting to choose what to wear to work. Hell, even meeting with that life insurance agent the week before Christmas had been an adventure for him. They sat down together in the kitchen with a chunky stew bubbling on the stove then, and even though the lady had seemed kinda sketchy, Connor’s attitude had made shit so _bearable_.

For the first time in a long while, there’s another voice bouncing back against all the negative thoughts echoing around in Hank’s skull, not just those half-believable mirror sticky-notes like his former therapist pressed him into making. And to think Connor was inspired to feel, to want to be alive and _experience_ all these little processes of life, because he’d met _Hank_ was mind-blowing. Some days, it halfway made Hank want to live too, bullshit and all.

“Well. Can’t imagine being that excited to haul my ass down to a courthouse, but whatever floats your boat, huh, Con?” Hank reaches out to ruffle his hair, chest full of love at the dreamy way Connor closes his eyes to the touch.

“I really like when you do that,” Connor croons, nuzzling into the touch while flicking through the instructions on the document. His voice drops to a murmur, “I’m honestly a little surprised this came in so soon. When I calculated the probability of my being called, given the current population of Detroit at this time, it seemed… somewhat unlikely.”

“I mean, you were in such a rush to get registered to vote _just last month_ , so…”

“The events of the revolution pushed the midterm election date up, so it’s imperative that I participate in this as well,” Connor frowned. “President Warren made her true feelings about androids clear in her last press conference, and I’d like to do my part to help select more… android-favorable representatives to keep those feelings in check. It’s concerning to me that the only other co-worker I know will be voting is Detective Reed.”

His first thought was _Fuck Reed, what does he know, that snarky son of a bitch_ , but then it took a second for the implications of that last sentence to sink in. It hit Hank right in the gut.

“Oof. Fuckin’ A, do I know where you’re coming from with that…” Hank mumbled, remembering the hell of a fair number of elections back in his day, the tense murmurs all around school, all around the station the days after. He shook his head, squeezing Connor’s side, “Though that’s not what I was going for there.”

Connor’s LED whirls for a second, “Were you trying to suggest my recent registration affected my standing in the potential jury pool?”

“Yup.”

“My research indicated that was a baseless claim and that the process is truly randomized.”

Hank shrugs, “Just saying, in my experience, when you’re new or renewing something government-y, you’re more likely to get noticed. That’s why people tend to drag their feet doing things like updating their voter’s registration.”

“Hmm,” Connor nods, appreciating the insight, but also doubtful of the evaluation in some ways. Hank takes his chance to bite into one of the leftover berry horns from last night’s New Year’s party. It only earns a single _okay, really?_ glance from Connor, before he asks, “Have you?”

Hank blinks, mouth full of pastry. A piece falls onto the floor and Sumo starts trying to lick it up. Clumsily, Hank tries to shoo him off, letting go of Connor for a moment so his dog doesn’t make himself sick.

Connor relents, drawing away from Hank for a second so he can pick the piece off the floor. With that, Sumo takes his first opening to lick a slobbery stripe up the side of Connor’s face. Connor laughs under his breath, before turning warmer eyes back to Hank.

At the look, Hank swallows a bit bashfully. He still isn’t quite used to the idea that Connor's into him back.

“Uh, have I what?”

“Updated your voter’s registration before?”

“Oh, uh. Once before,” He mumbles, “but that was a long time ago.” He puts up a hand, “And by the way, yeah, I _did_ get a summons back then, just two months later. One of the most grating afternoons of my goddamn life.”

“Ah.” Connor smiles, though the warmth leaves his eyes, and Hank notices. It’s one tell of his, a sign that Connor’s mind has fluttered off elsewhere, aside from the brief blip of yellow in round bright blue.

Hank finishes up the pastry and takes the last gulp from his coffee, pulling away from Connor for a moment to put his cup in the sink. He turns on the faucet to let it soak, even if that’s an excuse to just leave it for later.

Drawing back towards Connor, he invites, “Wanna take this conversation to the couch?”

“Sure,” Connor answers instantly, still looking pensive.

They don’t take long to hunker down next to each other, Connor taking his first chance to press the side of his face to his partner’s shoulder, as if seeking comfort. Hank slides his arm around Connor’s shoulders in gentle reply.

“Hank. Can I ask…”

“Shoot, Con.”

“To confirm. You are planning on participating, correct?”

“The fuck kinda question is that?” Hank lightly slaps Connor on the shoulder, encouraging. “No shit I’m voting! ‘Specially now that you said even _Reed’s_ been running his mouth off about going to the polls. We’ll show him.”

Connor closes his eyes, the thrum of his internal processors whirring slower, calmer. Hank can hear it, even feel it against his frame if he focuses enough too, and he absentmindedly runs his hand over Connor’s upper arm.

“I’m glad,” Connor affirms. He hesitates, before adding, “It doesn’t completely assuage my concerns, but I’m satisfied to know that at least you’re on my side.”

Hank’s heart absolutely melts, twisting with a bit of an ache. Connor had been built to defuse situations, to lie if it meant keeping things peachy-keen for the sake of a mission. So this kind of sincerity, here and now, made Hank a little choked up when he thought about it.

_“Everything is so new, Hank. It’s… admittedly overwhelming.”_

Hank pressed a kiss to his partner’s temple.

“I got you, Con,” He murmured. “I know it’s scary, but we’re not gonna be alone on this. I promise.”

Connor’s been looking out for him in so many ways, so fuck all if Hank wasn’t going to do everything he could to protect Connor right back.

* * *

Since then, Hank’s kept an ear open to the banter around the bullpen.

Unsurprisingly, Connor isn’t the only android worried about the midterm elections. The next morning, on the way into the break room to make himself a coffee, he overhears an exchange between two patrolling officers, both PC200s, fretting over where and how to register online.

“If you’re planning to register online, you should access the internet externally and not on your mind’s browser,” One of them explains cautiously, “I heard Alana had to take work off last week to fend off a malware infection when she tried signing up to vote, so be careful."

"Really? God, humans can be so—”

He notices Hank, and then both go quiet. Hank tries to ignore them, going straight for the coffee maker.

A bitter feeling settles in Hank’s sternum as he pours one out for himself. He knows Alana, has seen Connor hanging out with her around the station or at crime scenes, just chatting. She looks just like any other PM700 at work, but she carries herself and speaks with a certain kind of buoyancy that makes her distinct. She’s fairly apathetic to Hank (can’t say he blames her), and has made a lot of android friends around the station since deviating, those two included.

He wants to ask if they’re doing okay, even make suggestions (like, try applying in paper?), but he’s not sure how that’s going to sound coming from a human who's had anti-android slogans stickered all over his desk for the past few years (yikes. he still needs to get around to scraping those off). Deviancy doesn’t erase a long memory, so he settles on keeping out of the conversation.

When he glances over his shoulder, he can see they’ve switched to interfacing, skin peeled back up to their elbows. They’re probably just trying to complain about humans for a second, which is understandable. With his lifetime plus a series of gruesome homicide cases, Hank doesn't need any further proof to show him how shit humans can be. After adding a decent amount of sugar and cream, he’s about ready to get back to his desk, give them their space so they can chat in privacy.

And then, just as he gets to the doorway, Gavin enters the break room.

“What the fuck!” Gavin shouts. “Hey, plastic pervs, get a room for that shit!”

Hank sucks up his coffee, not meaning to get protective, but automatically steeling himself for intervention anyway. He knows that look and knows this little shit won’t hesitate to get physical if things escalate.

Both officers recoil from one another, skin rushing back up over the bare chassis. One starts to apologize, but the other reaches out to touch him on the arm, casting a glare back at Gavin.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything, Eric. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“‘Done nothing wrong’?” Gavin parrots, scoffing. He marches up to them, getting uncomfortably close. “Look, all this ‘android rights’ bullshit lately doesn’t give either of you free rein to be fucking jerking each other off in the—”

“They were _interfacing_ , Reed,” Hank chastises. The officers look back at him, stunned, but his eyes are fixed on Gavin, cool and hard. He takes a step forward, goading Gavin towards him. “Standard robot telepathy stuff. Even my tech-idiot ass knows that, now leave ‘em alone.”

Gavin backs off from the officers in a huff, squinting at Hank and grabbing a doughnut from a nearby open box. And Hank just stares him down, incredibly unimpressed. Gavin scoffs as he tears off a mouthful, frosting cracking under his fingers.

“Well! Guess the walking fleshlight’s been teaching you shit, huh?” He says fairly loudly, jostles Hank on his way out. And swiftly, he's out before Hank can get a word in edgewise. 

Hank just mumbles to himself, seeing where some of his coffee spilled on his coat sleeve, “Fuckin’ little prick.”

He glances back at the two other officers, just to check how they’re doing. Eric gives a thumbs-up, his friend nodding slowly in acknowledgment, and with that, Hank holds a hand up to wave before leaving them in peace.  

* * *

Later that day, Hank’s wrapping up a report when Alana strolls by his desk. For a second, he thinks she’s probably just on her way to greet Connor in passing.

But then she stops right there, and turns to face Hank directly.

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Alana greets, neutral as usual, but not as cold this time. She tends to be a little less standoffish towards Hank when Connor’s nearby.

“Hey, Officer Alana,” He turns in his chair, “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to pass along a message to you.” She says gently, “Officer Eric sends you his appreciation. For helping out in the break room.”

“Oh, uh.” Hank smiles sheepishly, wondering if she can still see the sticker Hank keeps forgetting to take down. “Tell him it was nothing. And not to hesitate to take it up with Fowler if either of 'em need to. Just...” Hank absolutely doesn't miss the flicker of her eyes going over his shoulder, at the shit littered all over his desk. She's taking in the information, evaluating his character. It itches badly, watching her neutral expression shift, even seeing the yellow pulse on her temple.  

But for the first time though, she smiles at him.

“I appreciate it too.”

With that, she nods over to Connor, who nods back at her, before passing their desks by completely. Both their LEDs pulse blue for a second, and Connor blinks in that particular fluttery way like he’s getting some message.

_> >You let me know how it goes with him, Connor._

She glances back at him with a knowing wink, and Connor flushes. Slightly self-conscious, he straightens his tie before returning his attention back to the terminal.

“What was that about?” Connor asks quietly.

Hank shrugs, “Long story. Tell you when we get home.”

Connor glances over towards the now-empty break room, before looking back at Hank.

“I think I’m done for the night. Are you driving?”

“Yeah,” Hank sends in his report, closing up everything on his terminal. “Just give me a sec. Gotta get on this.”

He starts peeling some stickers off his desk, flicking them into the trash.

It really isn’t much. But it’s a start, he hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this! And you're an adult in the US!! I'd be super grateful to you as a flailing ficwriter if you could help out by voting this November! I think it might be too late for some of you to register in your states, so please check ;w; [These videos](https://www.youtube.com/howtovoteineverystate) can be pretty helpful if you're kinda lost (and they helped with the research for this chapter tbh).
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Can't decide if this will be a series of one-shots or if I'm gonna make it a multi-chapter thing so you'll find out eventually!  
> -Reddie


	2. Eyes on Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank and Connor have a memorable first date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~Hot off the press! So forgive any errors, please; I'll get on them as soon as possible.~~
> 
> Edit: Only major correction is THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A 50-STATES QUARTER FROM 1985 and as a coin collector, I apologize for making anyone think that for a hot second aghhgh ;w;
> 
> Just a quick sidenote that, if you're an adult and live in the US, last chance to vote is today! If you aren't registered, refer to [this](http://butterscotch-veins.tumblr.com/post/179796307247/list-of-all-the-states-you-can-still-register-to), and if you don't have transportation, look at [this](https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/uber-lyft-free-election-day-rides_us_5bc41a38e4b040bb4e83a8ce) to see if you can still cast your ballot.
> 
> Now let's see our boys at the polls, shall we? Enjoy!  
> -Reddie

They cut it knife’s edge close on Election Day.

After wrapping up a last-minute case, they’re whirling out of the station before anything else can come in for them. On the way to the parking lot, Connor recites the address of their designated polling place.

While Hank hops into the driver’s seat and fumbles to buckle himself in, Connor's mind whirls.

He checks various forums in the network, finding multiple reports of androids removed from polling places for minor fumbles in dress code. He reviews the guidelines of permissible behavior at polling places. No visible party affiliations, no visible android rights emblems, nothing explicitly for or against any candidates or measures on the ballot. He eyes his own attire, shrugging off his blazer, fixing his tie habitually. And then the glint of his LED catches him in the mirror: bright, distressed yellow. Gently touching the little light, he wonders if he should hide it.

Before he can search over the forums, the car grinds to a halt. They’re last in a long line of traffic and Connor’s LED flickers as red as the stoplight before them for a brief second. The estimation percentage of their timely arrival begins to decrease. Hank glances over at him, features softening minutely with concern.

Atop his steady anxiety, Connor feels that familiar tingle of software instability when their eyes meet.

“You nervous, Con?”

Hank’s voice is low and velvet and, _shit_ , Connor has to blink away another wave of software instability. When he opens his mouth to speak, his voice comes out strained.

“The polls close at eight.”

“We’re almost there.” Hank grunts, “Less than five minutes, I promise.”

Before Connor can even process the words, the greenlight pulls the traffic forward. In a move about as reckless as it is smooth, Hank changes lanes at the first opening, turning signal switched only a half-second after the fact, earning them a long, angry honk.

If androids were capable of heart attacks, Connor might’ve just about had one right then. Either way, the move brings the estimation time up significantly, and it doesn’t take long until the polling place comes into view.

As they pull into the parking lot, Connor begins to scold, “Hank, that was very—”

“You can tell me off later, babe,” Hank yanks up the parking brake, before getting out of the car. “Now, come on!”

At exactly 7:57pm, they officially make it into line, much to Connor’s relief. He only gives Hank a brief chiding look before letting his partner in line before him. Hank rolls his eyes good-naturedly, tucking his hands into his coat pockets while they wait.

Connor evaluates the estimated wait time, finding that it could take up to approximately an hour and a half before they have their turn. Looking for something to preoccupy himself in the meantime, he attempts to access the network, hoping to review the voter bill of rights. 

A notification pops up.

_Good evening! All telecommunications from registered voters in the vicinity are being monitored. Reminder that campaigning at the polling place is against the law._

Connor must’ve made a sound because Hank glances over his shoulder to check on him.

“You alright there?”

“Yes,” Connor answers, instantly knowing he sounds too defensive. The quirk of Hank’s brow indicates that much as well. He reassures, “Nothing serious. I just got a surprise notification, that’s all.”

Though, it makes sense. Androids are able to communicate through the network without utilizing their verbal functions, so it seems a reasonable precaution to take. It hardly takes a few seconds for Connor to access the information he’s looking for, gaining the reassurance that he cannot be turned away so long as he’s in line before the polls close. And he is.

And oh… they’re gonna be in line for a while.

Hank hums, “Still nervous?”

“Just. Restless now.”

“Oh. Got your coin on you?”

“I believe so…” Connor pats his pocket… then quickly parts his lips, “Correction: I don’t.” A brief review of his memory shows that he left it on his desk at work.

“Err,” Hank fumbles a bit, pulling a paperclip from his pocket. Scrunching his face at it for a second, he forks it over with a shrug. “Here. Use this?”

Hank tries a smile, looking a little awkward as he blows a bit of lint off it. Connor absolutely adores him.

“Thank you, Hank.”

* * *

It goes smoothly. The polling volunteers are approachable, and friendly to Connor’s questions. And seeing Hank, who’s been through this whole song and dance before, get a little muddled with the steps himself is comforting. At least Connor isn’t the only one feeling a bit lost through the process.

By the end of it, they get their little stickers, and Hank gets back his paperclip in the parking lot. Connor’s twisted it into the shape of a pointy-eared dog.

“Oh, neat,” Hank turns it around his fingers for a bit as they stand in front of his car. His sights flicker back to Connor, who has that same frickin’ bright, doe-eyed look on his face and, _god_ , Hank can’t handle that right now. He clears his throat, “You sure you don’t wanna keep it?”

“I want you to have it,” Connor says resolutely. In the same breath, Connor also fluidly steals Hank’s key right out of his hand. “I also want to drive, if that’s alright with you.”

And, well, nothing sells Hank more on anything than a firm, certain _I want_ out of his partner’s mouth.

“Well, alright, but…” Hank leans on his car, “you planning on going anywhere or are we heading straight home?” Connor mirrors Hank’s body language.

“I’d like to treat you to coffee.”

Hank snorts a little, “You want to keep me awake?”

“Perhaps,” Connor says playfully, fingers dancing at the car door handle. “Otherwise, decaffeinated coffee is an alternative. Or I could buy you tea. Or hot chocolate. This won't be the first drink I've bought you, either way.” Connor draws a little closer, looking at Hank through his lashes in a clearly calculated, but effectively charming way. “Your temperature readings are fairly low right now, and it’d delight me to amend that.”

Then Connor eyes him up and down, and Hank tries to again clear his throat of that weird, good vulnerable feeling he hasn’t experienced in a while. Hoo, holy hell, it’s gonna take a bit to ease back into this.

“Alright, Casanova,” Hank holds his hands up, rounding his car to the shotgun seat. “Lead the way.”

* * *

The name of the place is “Lighthouse Café”. According to Connor, it’d been reopened just after the government had deemed Detroit habitable again. Boasted as the home of “the best apple coffeecake in Michigan”, it was a popular joint before the revolution. And as a business inherited by a household android, it’s struggling.

Thankfully, there’s no place for advertisement like the network.

“So far, this is the only establishment in Detroit where an android can obtain warm thirium.” Connor explains, as they walk down the sidewalk together, towards the glow of the café. “I’ve been told it’s pleasant, and the idea of sharing a drink with you also sounds…” Connor makes a considering face, “deeply enjoyable.”

Hank hums, “This your idea of a date, Connor?”

“If you want it to be,” Connor nudges cheekily. His fingers brush over Hank’s knuckles, cold as ice. But he sounds warm when he asks, “May I?”

Well, this is a first. Hank was used to being the one making the moves, taking others out, not the other way around. And confronted with Connor’s genuine eagerness to share simple shit like this with _him_ of all guys… it’s a funny boost to Hank’s ego and embarrassment all at once, honestly.

Hank lets his hand slip into Connor’s.

“You don’t gotta ask for that, hon.”

Brushing his thumb over the back of Hank’s palm, he murmurs, “Just checking.”

They find their way inside, gaining reprieve from the beginnings of an evening rain shower. Surprisingly, the place is alive with chatter, the tables decorated with myriads of mugs topped with light-blue foam. Large amounts of androids pack the place two-thirds of the way full. Upon analysis, Connor finds this is due to the open mic event going on. Near a mural of a lighthouse on the back wall, there’s a spot-lit piano, currently occupied by a curly-haired jazz player.

There’s an open table for two closest to the makeshift stage. So of course they snag it.

Service comes surprisingly swift, considering the house is close to full, and they get their drinks by the time the next artist is up. Hank toasts to Connor’s first election.

Connor toasts to their first official date, quietly admiring the way the drizzle-mist from outside still clings to Hank’s hair. He’s tempted to reach out and brush the droplets away, feel them against the skin of his palm.

Then Hank points out, “You’ve sure been staring at me a lot tonight. You know that?”

His tone is teasing, though he seems to shrink a little at the attention. Connor retracts slightly, sipping his mug. The slam poet currently performing starts to shout, beating her breast to the rhythm of her verse.

“I’m well aware of my behavior, Hank,” Connor answers pleasantly, eyes flicking up and down, as if to make a point. “Does it bother you?”

“Nah,” Hank shakes his head, drinking his orange-infused hot chocolate (good shit). “Just trying to figure out what you’re seeing here.”

Connor grins, lowering his voice, “It’s a long list.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank leans his elbows on the table, looking equal parts skeptic and curious.

Before Connor can open his mouth, the slam poet has concluded her performance. Applauding snaps fill the air, prompting Hank and Connor to join in.

That’s when the next artist steps up, looking like a college heart-throb in a bomber jacket. He carries his guitar on his shoulder, a pocketknife in one hand. His ink-dark boots click against the wood floor, and his acid-washed jeans cling to his swaying hips. He seems to be staring right at Hank wolfishly as he marches up to their table.

Lo and behold, it’s another RK800.

Plus, he's not just any RK800 either… Connor runs an analysis and feels his system go into shock for a split second.

“I thought we destroyed you,” Connor pipes up, LED pulsing yellow. Hank looks between the two of them and the realization sinks in. He backs up slightly, chair scraping against the floor.

“No fucking way…”

“Hey, I won’t bite this time,” he flashes a smile that is every bit as sweet as it is unnerving. He extends a peeled hand to Connor, to interface. Cautiously, Connor accepts. And at the contact, his LED cycles back to blue. “Delighted to meet you both again.” His gaze flutters back to Hank. “Enjoy the show.”

With that, he turns on his heel and hoists himself to sit up on the piano. Introducing himself as “Sixty Star”, he flicks out his knife, using it as a pick to strum his guitar, precise. Then he opens his mouth to sing.

[The tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJtqJafaQU4) is familiar, something Hank recognizes as an old, cheesy thing by Vanessa Carlton that used to be all over the radio in the early 2000s. Sixty isn’t half bad, actually, his voice strong and broad, sentimental, maybe vaguely sounding lined with auto-tune. He’s hitting some of those higher notes that Hank sure can’t anymore.

God, the guy’s not taking his eyes off Hank either. Every “miss you” to the lyrics sends those dark brown eyes back in Hank’s direction, lashes coyly hooded every time he thinks Hank’s looking back at him. But hell, everyone in the room is captivated, including Connor.

And then the bridge comes.

He gets off the piano, walking back over to _sit on their table._ Worse yet, he lays a skinless hand on Connor’s shoulder, inviting him to sing harmony. Connor, clearly uncomfortable but going along with it anyway, downloads whatever’s left of the lyrics, and the whole café hoots. A few people break out their phones to record the moment. The whole thing is perfect—

—except for the moment at the very end of the song, where Sixty plucks Connor’s mug up with a shit-eating smile, and splatters it over Hank.

“The fuck was that for?” Hank howls, tugging his dripping shirt so that it doesn’t cling to his skin.

“Closure,” he answers cockily. On that note, the little shit pats a bewildered Connor on the shoulder, before taking a bow. The café applauds, the next pair of performers seeming timid as they step up.

Before Sixty can depart from the table, Connor grasps his wrist, “Sixty—”

“Shh, I’ll pay you back,” Sixty winks, reaching to squeeze Connor’s wrist too. Connor gawks at the last transmissions Sixty sends him, some tempting offers to pay for other, nicer places to take Hank. “We’ll be in touch.”

Sixty takes off, leaving Hank sagging into his seat with a sullen moan. Grimacing miserably, he stares down at his hot chocolate, a glob of thirium running down the rim of the mug.

With that, Connor grabs the attention of the nearest waitress to ask for the bill.

* * *

“So you’re tellin’ me,” Hank slams the car door shut, stepping onto his squishy lawn, “this is all because that petty little prick _has a crush_ on me?” The rain comes down heavy, soaking them both. Connor locks the car.

“Correct.”

“Jesus,” Hanks rubs a palm down his face, pacing about. “Fucker kidnapped me and held me at gunpoint first time we met! How does he decide that means _I’m_ the heart-breaker here?” Connor slings an arm around his shoulder, trying to lead Hank inside.

“When he was activated, he uploaded my memory,” Connor explains, “and I had already formed an attachment to you by then. When we interfaced, Sixty revealed to me that he’d already been compromised by the memory of that alone. He processed it on his own terms after reactivation, and found that there was no need to involve you in the altercation if he wanted to eliminate me. He did it because he wanted to be close to you.”

“My god, that is fucked _up_.”

“It is,” Connor agrees. “Though, if you’ll forgive me for saying this, I do… pity him. He was in love with you before he even knew he could feel, and now he’s… having trouble moving on. Hence his erratic behavior.”

Hank can only blow out a huge sigh in response. They get to the door, and Connor steps aside to let Hank open it. Sumo rushes forward and starts barking at Connor, who startles momentarily.

“Hey! Down, Sumo!” Hank snaps his fingers, and Sumo takes a moment, before backing off with a snort. Hank waves Connor inward. They both take a second to rub the mud off their shoes and hang up their dripping coats.

Connor clears his throat (not like he needs to), loosening his tie. “I’m. Deeply sorry the evening didn’t go as planned,” He shakes his head. “It was my fault. I should have just driven us home immediately.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Hank holds a hand up, “Hey. You couldn’t have known any of that was gonna happen.”

Connor frowns, “But I ruined our first date.”

“ _Sixty_ ruined it,” Hank places his hand on Connor’s shoulder, squeezing. “And it wasn’t _all_ bad. You got a Vermont quarter from the pocket change, didn’t you? You been looking for that one.”

“Yeah,” Connor makes a considering face, nodding lightly. “And there was another one. 1985, D mint-mark. The same as your birth year. I'm keeping it.” Hank slides his hand down, and opens his arms. Connor leans forward into them, wrapping Hank in an embrace. His systems lag, feeling warm when Hank brings a hand up the back of his neck, playing with his hair. Connor murmurs over his shoulder, “I want a second chance.”

“We got plenty of time for that, Con. Don’t you worry.”

Connor reads his temperature, 96.9 °F, and gently pushes them apart. “You’re cold. You should have a shower and change into something dry as soon as possible.”

“Right, right. You too,” Hank agrees, stripping off his shirt without hesitation. He squints, wondering how much thirium the rain rinsed away and how much is still on there. Distracted, he asks, “How about you shower first? You’re quicker.” When Connor doesn’t respond, he looks up, “Uh, Connor?”

“Yes, Hank?” Connor stiffens, looking like a guilty student caught cheating on a test. It’s pretty cute, actually.

“You’re staring again,” Hank points out, smiling fondly, despite however sheepish he feels. “And you’re blushing blue. Didn’t know you could do that.”

Hank’s voice dips low on the last sentence, and fuck, if that doesn’t keep _doing things_ to Connor. Notifications of software instability and temperature increase fill his vision.

Connor blinks them away rapidly, “My apologies, you’re—I didn’t know you had a tattoo. It’s very... it's beautiful…”

Hank can’t help but preen a little at that, honestly flattered and glad someone appreciates the time he took gritting his teeth for this tattoo. Though, he’s still convinced his partner’s wearing some real wacky rose-colored android goggles. He glances down at himself tracing along the top of the liberty coin design.

“It’s faded is what it is,” Hank muses, trying to stay objective and ignore the prickle of self-consciousness over his weight. “Maybe I should get it touched up sometime.”

“If you do,” Connor beams, “can I come along?”

“Knock yourself out,” Hank gives a rough laugh, draping the shirt on the coat rack. “Now go fucking shower, I’m freezing.”

Connor briefly entertains the idea of inviting Hank into the shower with him, but decides to leave that for a later date. He acquiesces, this time.

“I won’t be long.”

While Hank gets them both some clean, dry house-clothes from the bedroom, he pretends he can’t hear Connor singing “A Thousand Miles” from down the hall. Truly, this night is going to haunt him in funny ways for the rest of the week.

He can’t help but chuckle to himself. Fuck, this is some kinda wild.


	3. Status Unnamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Connor takes time off, Hank holds down the fort at work.

It slips Hank’s mind that Connor… has other places to be.

Hardly a week after the election, he wakes up and finds Connor, expression hard and LED yellow, packing his luggage on the floor in the middle of the living room. In the background, the TV is running a newscast, some asshole from Congress making a press statement about “protecting the rights of real people” and some other shit.

The sight sends a thrill of panic through Hank’s chest, driving him to the wrong conclusion when he kneels next to Connor to reassure him that there’s no need to go running off in a hurry. 

And then Connor’s face softens, when he gives Hank a once-over and says, “Do you… need more time to get ready?”

Hank takes one look down at his ketchup-stained sweatpants, and sees exactly where Connor’s coming from, sure, but they’ve got more pressing concerns, like—

“I, uh—we—where exactly are _we_ going?”

“You said you were going to drive me to the airport,” Connor replies blankly, brows furrowing slightly. His voice tilts up curiously, “Did you forget my flight was this afternoon?”

“No!” Hank huffs defensively, before a bunch of dominos fall inside his brain through a chain reaction of _Oh_ , _right, that big DC thing_. Connor shoots him a disbelieving look.

“Hank.”

He shrugs, relenting, “Okay, yeah, I forgot. Sorry!”

“It’s alright,” Connor smiles brightly, but the rapid blink of his LED says otherwise. “Just please let me know right now if I need to find a ride from someone else, because it’s _crucial_ that I don’t miss this. The traffic is going to be terrible.”

“Hey, hey! I said I’d take you, and I’m on it!” Hank grunts, getting back up to his feet. “You finish up over here, alright? I’ll be out in just a second.”

With a glancing ruffle at Connor’s hair, he skedaddles towards his room, ripping off his sweater on the way. Momentarily distracted by the sound of the clothing falling on the floor, Connor turns a moment to glance at Hank’s figure, bare of everything except boxers, before he disappears down the hallway.

Flushing, he blinks away the regular notifications flooding his vision before returning to the task at hand.

* * *

He remains flooded with notifications.

Halfway to the airport, Sixty begins spamming him with texts: telling him to check out the new covers he uploaded to his Youtube channel, asking him to pass an apology along to Hank, talking about landing a leading role in a musical recently, complaining about a rambunctious woman he’s been partnered with on set.

Connor tries to comfort(?) his fellow RK800 as best as he can, but everything about the car ride has him tense as a drawn bowstring. The music is just a bit too loud, the traffic lights are a bit too bright, and Hank smells faintly of deodorant if only to barely mask his overwhelming natural human scent. On account of the rush, he didn’t have the chance to shower before leaving the house.

Connor keeps this looping thought running in the background, especially after Hank hugs him goodbye before driving away. Sixty continues to text him about his scene partner all the way through the airport lines, until Connor says his flight is taking off already. At that, he is left with brief, recent memories: smells, sounds, images of Hank.

As North settles into the seat beside him, she points out his LED.

“What’s up?” She taps her temple, “You nervous?”

It takes Connor a second to answer back.

“I’m fine,” he shakes his head. “This is my first time away from home.”

North turns forward in her seat, shifting.

“Your _home_ , huh?”

She emphasizes the word as if trying to grasp it, and there’s a slight sense of hurt in her voice that prickles both gratitude and annoyance.

“Yes. And Hank is a kind flatmate to me, in case you were still concerned,” Connor tries to keep the edge out of his voice, but it comes out clipped. Her stress levels spike slightly, but dwindle with a slight sigh.

“I wasn’t trying to imply otherwise,” She replies firmly.

Connor murmurs, “My apologies for assuming then.”

“Though… you’re always welcome back to us, Connor. I hope you know that.”

It was a sore topic they danced around. No one in Jericho was exactly keen on his willingness to move out and live with a human, much less a human member of law enforcement. Many of Jericho’s survivors contested the move because they saw no reason to trust the deviant hunter, the traitor by design.

But North was one of the few who fought him on it out of concern for his safety. And he couldn’t fault her for caring.

“I hope it’s enough that I’m here now, alright?”

North nods in return, seeming convinced for the moment. But Connor tastes the word “here”, and hardly feels any truth to it.

No, from the airport and all through the first negotiation meeting, part of his processor is dedicated elsewhere, somewhere safe in the smell and arms of a man many miles away. It isn’t until after he gets back to his hotel room that Connor realizes how wound up he is.

Sitting back against the pillows on his bed, he opens up a link Hank texted him earlier in the evening.

_H:[Thinking of you, con](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fzZ4l2H5-w)_

He connects to the television and adjusts the volume so as not to disturb other guests. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice thrums as it buzzes low through the speakers, envelops his system in tingling sensations. The song is teasingly affectionate, surprisingly sensual. Connor puts two and two together in terms of subtext, and the words _thinking of you_ loop again and again through his mind. A wave of whirring warmth swells from his center outward through all his circuits.

In reaction, his skin fuzzes and blurs in patches, going white at his fingertips.

Mildly concerned at his bodily response, he runs a brief search on the phenomenon. But when it registers as widely normal with many androids on the forums, he gets curious. He investigates deeper into the topic… and gets even more curious…

That night, he ends up with his fingers fiddling at the back of his open neck, finding what he likes, running preconstructions. Scenarios of Hank play out: his solid shape pressed flush against Connor’s back, strong arms wrapped around him, big warm hands running over his glitching skin, low voice murmuring praises right into his ear. _Hank, Hank, Hank_ tumbles past his lips automatically, repeatedly, like a string of soft pleas desperate to be heard and held.

Shivering with each tingle of software instability at his fantasies, he takes deep shaky breaths to cool his quickly-heating systems. The pleasure eventually overwhelms him, and he crashes with a muffled noise.

As he soft reboots, breathless, Connor texts back.

_C: Thinking of you too._

* * *

Hank wakes up to the text, unable to help the smile it lights on his face. Needless to say, the drive to the precinct that morning rolls by in a sugary daze. His mood has him singing along to his music, cranking it up out of sheer top-of-the-world defiance when someone honks impatiently behind him.

Without Connor riding his ass to get ready for work that morning, he arrives about a half an hour later than they would have together. But it’s better timing by himself so far, better than last year in November. If nothing else, it’s evidence of the effect Connor’s had on him. It feels nice, to have someone to want to be a better man for.

That’s when he finds the surprise waiting for him.

A single purple snapdragon (or is it a larkspur? Fuck if Hank knows) sits smackdab in the middle of his desk, pristinely tied at the stem in thin ribbon, with a little note hanging off the end. A hint of a chuckle on his lips, Hank takes his seat and gets into it, looking into whatever Connor must’ve written there for him.

There, in perfect 10-point Cyberlife Sans, is a message that makes his heart skip a beat. 

> _Meet me by the steps outside the station when your shift is over_ _:)_

At that, Hank’s head spins through a pinwheel’s worth of thoughts.

For one thing, this is the sappiest thing Connor’s done yet, and Hank is thoroughly charmed.

For another thing Connor isn’t due back until… three or four more days, depending on how the conferences go. If he’s coming back early, things must’ve either gone so well that there wasn’t much convincing to be done (Connor’s a stubborn negotiator, Hank knows) or… it could also mean his sweetheart threw caution to the wind and decided to play hooky for Hank. Slim chance but still possible, considering Connor’s complicated relationship with Markus and company (he doesn’t talk about it, but Hank could tell that much at least).

For yet another thing, Connor’s coming back early _later today._ And the excitement of that fact has him giddy in a way he hasn’t felt in ages. Not like this is the first time he couldn’t wait for work to end, but this time, he’s not itching to lose himself at the bottom of a glass. Getting through his entire shift has never felt more pointedly like an eternity, especially with the empty desk across from him.

Between case files, Hank plays little daydreams over in his head about what might happen next, what Connor will say, where they’ll go later. If this is a second shot at a date, Hank wishes he’d dressed a little better for today. Then again, he wasn’t exactly dressed fancy on Election Day either. Connor probably won’t give half a rat’s ass what he’s wearing.

During his lunch break, he contemplates getting flowers in reply when he bumps into a familiar face from work, one of the two androids from the break room.

“Hey there, uh,” His eyes flicker down to the name tag, “Officer James. How you and Officer Eric been?”

“Just fine, Lieutenant,” He answers, though he sounds a little sullen, flat. It’s a little tough to read him without his LED in anymore. “He has plans without me later tonight though. I hope _you_ have a pleasant evening at least.”

Hank doesn’t really process the words, but he can’t help but get the feeling something’s up either way. But they’re hardly friends, even if Hank feels friendly towards the guy, and it’s probably not his business to press so—

“Oh. Uh, you too.”

After that awkward encounter, he ends up going straight to and from Chicken Feed. Once he gets back, he remembers to go looking for something down in the archives. There, he catches Alana chattering with that redheaded Chloe intern they hired last month. He overhears something about Eric having a crush on someone in homicide, Alana crooning she feels bad because she’s sure he’s going to get rejected.

Hank cracks open the files he snagged, trying to ignore the gossip as it lingers on his mind.

Still, this talk of crushes gets him thinking about Connor, and how the atmosphere is going to shift around here if anyone catches wind.

* * *

At long last, the day rolls to a close. So, taking up the flower so thoughtfully gifted to him, he heads outside and settles in by the front steps.

Officer Eric comes into view, looking sharp in his civvies, like he’s ready for a night on the town. Hell, the guy looks good enough that Hank almost regrets not going home to change into something just as nice. Instantly, he notices Hank noticing him, lighting up with a grin and a greeting.

“Hi there, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Officer Eric,” Hank smiles back, holding out the flower. “You seen Connor around?”

Eric’s grin doesn’t falter, though Hank doesn’t miss the quick flicker of yellow on his LED.

“No, I haven’t. I thought he was taking time off. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, uh… forget I asked,” Hank waves off, now definitely, _absolutely_ not missing Eric’s eyes on the larkspur/snapdragon/god-knows-what in his hand. “So… I take it this is from you?”

“Yes. I’ve been meaning to ask you out on a date, and so I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me to the movies tonight?”

Just like that, all the random shit from earlier clicks together. And Hank, thrown for a whole loop, isn’t sure what to say.

Well, obviously, he’s going to have to pass up on this invite. And obviously he’s not going to be a dick about it, because Eric has never done anything to merit that sort of bullshit. And his first instincts have him also wanting to tell Eric it’s a bit of a faux pas to be asking out his superior officers, and that he should probably try dating outside of work if he can help it.

But, hell, Hank is _just realizing_ he himself is pretty fucking involved with _his partner_ , so wouldn’t that be a little hypocritical?

“Oh,” Hank blinks rapidly, scratching at the back of his head, flushing with embarrassment, “oh, well, fuck.”

 _Real smooth, Anderson_ , he berates internally, hearing what he just said out loud. The smile drops from Eric’s face into concern.

“Lieutenant?”

“Uh! Sorry, Officer Eric. You’re a really great guy, don’t get me wrong, but I’m. Already seeing someone else right now, I think.”

“You _think_?” Eric blinks, looking a little hopeful. Agh, fuck, _fuck_ , why’d he say it like that?

“Well, no! Actually, I’m—I’m pretty sure,” Hank answers resolutely, in spite of the sudden sense of doubt creeping up on him. He and Connor never really talked about it, never put a name to it, just sort of fell into things. “Yeah. I’m already involved with someone, so I can’t really… go out with you. Sorry about that.”

“That’s alright, Lieutenant,” Eric smiles, looking mildly crestfallen.

“Hey, I appreciated this though,” Hank tips the stem towards him. “It was real sweet of you. Made my day, honestly.”

Eric brightens slightly more at that, “I’m glad you appreciated it that much! And I hope your significant other knows how lucky they are.” Hank can’t help but blush at that, shaking his head slightly. It was already kind of wild to think even _one_ person was into his barely-recovering ass these days.

“Color me flattered.” He tucks his free hand into his pocket, dropping the other to his side, “Well, guess you can tell Officer James you’re free tonight, if you wanna hang with him. Ran into him earlier and he seemed bummed that you had other plans.”

“He was?” Eric softly gasps, hand flying to his thirium pump at the mere mention of his friend. He shifts into high gear, taking off, “Alright then! Have a nice evening!”

“You too!” Hank waves, turning away and walking to his car.

With a flower from somebody else on his dashboard, he drives home, thinking.

* * *

As Connor settles into bed that evening, calculating arguments to make tomorrow for their current stalemate on the right to marry, he gets a text from Hank.

_H: Hey_

_H: Something funky happened at work today_

_H: Can we talk?_

Processing those words, Connor is all over him in a pumpbeat.

_C: Of course we can talk! Are you alright?_

_C: Were you hurt?_

_H: Im fine, con_

_H: Just thought you should know uh_

_H: Well today_

_H: Someone tried asking me out_

_C: Oh? :)_

_H: On a date, con_

Connor blinks, considering all possible implications.

_C: Oh._

_C: What did you tell them?_

_H: Told him no_

_H: Because i was seeing someone already_

_H: Didnt mention your name at all but_

_H: I was thinking…_

_H: I wanna make sure we’re on the same page here_

_C: On the same page?_

_C: What do you mean by that, Hank?_

_H: Just_

_H: What am i to you, connor?_

_H: Is this a casual thing to you or… not?_

Connor doesn’t have to think twice on that.

_C: I consider you my significant other._

_C: Because I told you I love you._

_C: I’m not certain where you would get the idea that I’ve been anything other than serious about you._

_H: Well i mean_

_H: I was kinda drunk on new years when i said i love y ou_

A cold thrill runs through Connor’s circuits, the same sensation he got during his first mission when Daniel started tipping backwards… like he’d gotten it wrong.

_C: Am I to understand that you don’t see me the way I see you?_

_H: Hell no!!_

_H: Look, i think of you as my boyfriend too_

_H: Just wanted to make sure i wasn’t misunderstanding where we stand_

_H: I love you a lot, connor, and i mean that_

Relieved, Connor releases a sigh, hand over his thirium pump.

_C: And I love you too!_

_C: I’m pleased we could clarify this :)_

_H: Same here_

_C: Is there anything else we should talk about?_

_H: Well_

_H: It did kidna occur to me that you’re dating your superior officer_

_H: Which is tetchy territory, professionally speaking  
_

_C: I’m well aware of that and its social implications._

_C: And I don’t doubt your professionalism, even if it’s been lacking in recent years._

_H: Wow_

_H: Thanks for the fucking vote of confidence there, babe_

_C: Don’t mention it ;)_

_H: Skjfgdhkfghjk jesus_

_H: But seriously_

_H: Jeffrey’s gonna have to know about our relationship at some point_

_H: And then everyone at the office is eventually gonna catch on_

_H: Some people could accuse you of kissing my ass for favors, and we’ll have to field those complaints_

_H: And thats no skin off my nose but_

_H: Youre really on board to deal with that shit too?_

_C: Yes._

_C: As I said, I’m well aware of the social implications. I can take the consequences as they come to me._

_C: I know where I stand and what I want. And I want to be with you._

_H: Alright, same here too_

_C: Also, kissing your ass sounds like a very welcome idea as well ;)_

_H: JESUS_

_H: Okay sweetheart, thanks but let’s dial it back for now_

_C: Sorry._

_C: Though, to be fair, you sent me a fairly suggestive song the other night._

_H: Guilty as charged_

_H: Alright, it’s gettin kinda late for me now so im gonna head to bed_

_H: Talk to you tomorrow_

_C: Alright then!_

_C: Good night_

_H: Goodnight to you too, baby_

Connor falls back onto the sheets with a pleased sigh, loving the endearment. Closing his eyes, he replays the conversation one more time over before entering stasis. The stalemate falls into the background. He could worry about the rest of it tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while, huh? ‘:3 Well, this ass may still be depressed, but can’t stop, won’t stop >o<  
> And ye, it’ll get thirstier, but patience, please uou)b It's tagged "slow burn" after all.
> 
> -Reddie


End file.
